


heartstrings.

by jinjangled



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, dont ask what this is bc idk either, eunwoo and sanha are businessmen, extremely inaccurate, myungjin are in love as per usual, rocky and bin are in an orchestra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinjangled/pseuds/jinjangled
Summary: Dongmin drags Sanha along with him to see an orchestra perform. Maybe it isn't such a bad thing after all, because Sanha might have just fallen in love with the radiant violinist. Dongmin, on the other hand, can't keep his eyes off of the boy with the flute.





	heartstrings.

**Author's Note:**

> hey this makes absolutely no goddamn sense but that doesnt matter, im just here for a good time  
> this was such a fun thing to write and i listened to so many different symphonies while i wrote this. definitely recommend it.

Sometimes, the best things in life are unexpected. 

High school as a whole had been rather confusing, university sending him spiralling down in a flurry of uncertainty and  _ terror _ , because he had no direction. A business degree seemed to be the best choice, or it had at the time, for it was, realistically, his only option. The worst thing about it had been numbers. Well, not so much the numbers themselves, but the things he had to do with numbers. There were formulas,  _ so many formulas, _ way too many percent signs, and there had also been a decision that finance was just not his thing. He’d sort of fell into administration, riding out the waves that tumbled toward him, pushed by a force called  _ life _ . 

From university, he’d gone straight into the job market, seeking something that wouldn’t be too confronting, but would pay better than his job at the time; working at the local post office. He’d seen a job that looked too good to be true, seen a job that he could see  _ himself _ in. He’d updated his resume, sent it in, and then before he knew it, had been invited for an interview. He hadn’t needed to get a  _ police check _ before, and that had been quite the confronting ordeal, purely because he wondered if he’d be found out for that one time he’d accidentally shoplifted a lollipop as a kid.

It had been a few weeks as a process, but that process led to a tour around his  _ new office _ , on the  _ third floor _ . He’d loved it back then, and he still loves it now; the open space with clean white walls and desks to match. He’d never get over just how  _ plain  _ everything was on this level, splashes of green in the form of pot plants being the only thing to spice it up. There were glass windows to section off different areas, and his office was shared with the exchange administrator, Lee Dongmin, their desks pushed together so that they faced each other as they worked. Dongmin had been the reason he had settled into the job so quickly, his kind and doting nature doing wonders to calm Sanha’s nerves. Dongmin’s job had been more tasking than his had been, and sitting opposite him allowed Sanha to witness moments where Dongmin would push his head into his hands and knead at his scalp with frustrated fingers. Those times were times where Sanha would get up and return with a cup of coffee and a bright smile, giving both to Dongmin, and he would be rewarded with a grateful smile back.

They had become close and have remained that way ever since. Their friendship was something that just  _ worked _ , was a friendship flexible enough to allow sarcasm and gentle bullying to flow into a conversation about something private and deeply personal. Months in his job turned into years, and his life had begun to look a little more certain, his path a little more defined. Sanha had always been good at organising, scheduling, but when it came to actually executing those plans for himself, he was a lost cause. When it came to making plans for other people, however, it felt a little like second nature. Each morning that passed gradually brought him more emails into his inbox, all sent by higher-ups, all detailing meetings they needed to happen as soon as possible, and needed to fit with everyone’s availabilities. Sanha had taken it in stride, the praise he received by his boss only making him more determined to make it work, despite it being totally new.

His third year at the company was more or less a turning point, as his boss had emailed him a rather cryptic email on a Wednesday afternoon, letting him know that he should block out nine o’clock the next morning for he was needed in a meeting. Dongmin had raised an eyebrow, hands stilling over his keyboard. 

“You gonna be able to sit still for that long?” he’d said with a self-satisfied grin. Sanha had scowled, vowing  _ never  _ to tell Dongmin good news ever again. 

Sanha had found himself making more room for meetings, found himself staying back after hours for them. He spent less time in front of his computer and more time at the mahogany table in the boardroom. It had taken him many weeks of meetings before he felt comfortable enough to lean back in that faux leather swivelling chair - the one that his boss had discouraged him from calling a  _ spinny chair _ in front of representatives from other companies - and to hook his ankle over his knee, clasp his hands together, and suggest his own ideas.

It was his fourth year that brought the most change. He’d padded down the familiar hallway, following the black suit that was his boss, down to the elevator doors. He’d watched him press the button for the  _ fourth  _ floor, waited in an awkward silence, allowed himself to be led down the less familiar corridor of the fourth floor. The fourth floor was less white; charcoal carpet and modern grey walls, floor to ceiling windows lined with black, a painting of the founder looming over them from the wall. There were doors with different names and titles, the one at the very end for the chairman. His boss had stopped in his tracks, standing in front of a door that read  _ Yoon Sanha - Secretary _ in neat white lettering on the frosted glass. Sanha had looked at his boss in disbelief, looked at the knowing look, desperately wished to know  _ why  _ it was knowing. Sanha hadn’t deserved the title, wished it had been Dongmin instead. 

The office -  _ his  _ office - had been bland and honestly quite distasteful when he had first moved his things into it. He’d been hesitant to decorate it ‘however he wanted’, but the overwhelming boringness of the space had gotten to him quicker than the hesitation had. Soon there was a cluster of potted plants in the corner, a modern painting upon the wall that he’d bought in the hopes it would look  _ fresh  _ and  _ intelligent _ , like he was convincing anyone who saw it that he was complex enough to understand modern art. He wondered if that illusion would be broken by the stuffed giraffe plushie that sat beside the plaque that read  _ Yoon Sanha _ , but to be fair, it did fit his personality quite well. 

Nowadays, the office space has grown to represent more of him; more colours and more individuality. The chairman has yet to drop in and tell him off for it, which he’s grateful for, so he keeps going. The giraffe still sits on his desk, another larger one beside it, one that Dongmin had bought for him. His office has turned into some kind of lunchroom for himself and Dongmin, and Dongmin often comes into his office for ‘advice’, or plainly, a bitch session about difficult customers. 

Dongmin was, and still is, his confidant; someone who could probably lose him his job if he happened to be malicious enough. Sanha has a feeling Dongmin isn’t that type of person, he can tell by the way he doesn’t knock on the frosted glass before entering, juggling takeout and two large coffees, can tell by the way he’s already starting today’s spiel as he dumps the food on Sanha’s desk and helps himself to the chaise lounge against the left wall. Sanha keeps working, determined to finish this exchange between a potential partner for the company, but Dongmin is begging for his attention, whining because he’s forgotten his coffee on Sanha’s desk.

 

It is over one of these lunches that Dongmin mentions it,  _ it  _ being an upcoming performance by a slowly growing orchestra. Dongmin’s eyes are gleaming, his smile bright, cheeks pink with excitement and full of salad. Dongmin  _ loves  _ classical music, and Sanha can only imagine how much adrenaline is running through his veins right now; most likely a bit  _ too  _ much, with the way he seems to thrum, swallowing down his mouthful of food before he starts speaking again. Sanha is secretly grateful for the way Dongmin is polite in  _ nearly  _ everything he does; nearly everything, because his remarks toward Sanha are anything other than polite.

“Did you want to come? I can get you a ticket!” Dongmin’s words are rushed. “You might really like it! It always gives me goosebumps!”

Sanha lets a pause settle in between them, shovels a bit of chicken into his mouth, taking his time in chewing because he loves to string Dongmin around when he gets the chance. It would be unfair if the bullying was one-sided.

“Yeah, sure,” Sanha says, shrugging, but letting his own smile tilt his lips upward. He couldn’t say no to Dongmin, especially after he’d known him for this long, knowing him long enough to understand that this was a plea, an invitation into a new and deeper part of his life. Sanha loved the man, truly, and to keep that smile on his best friend’s face, he’d sit through two hours of what he assumed to be the same song but in different pitches.

Dongmin’s smile, one that breaks his facade of politeness with the way his coffee almost spills from his mouth, is a reward in itself.

 

Sanha has never been in a music hall before. He’s heard stories, seen them through low quality videos of comedy shows, but nothing even came close to how it looks in person. It is huge and so  _ grand _ . As soon as Dongmin’s hand on his back pushes him forward through the double doors on the top level, Sanha feels his jaw drop, feels his arms get a little limp. He can’t get over the pure size of the place, three levels of white walls and intricate arches, soft white light radiating upward off of the ledges beneath those arches. The seats are covered in the red fabric so stereotypical for a cinema, theatre, and now apparently orchestral halls. Sanha has yet to lift his eyes from the four rows of red-clad chairs at the top level, and looking up and over the ledge of the level, he sees the dim stage. The shadows do little to dull the beauty of the chandelier above them, the crystal shards giving the gentle light a medium to dance through, twirling on empty chairs and music stands. He wonders if they are playing a piece of their own, weaving their music through the air and up the walls. Sanha has never appreciated architecture like he is now; office walls differ all too much from the stone carvings he sees now. Dongmin, beside him, shares the thrill of being in a fancy music hall, the grin on his face expressing a childlike glee, the air about him comfortable and happy.

Sanha waits, gets a little bored waiting for the musicians. He inspects the lattice pattern on the walls across the room, wonders what this place looks like when it’s empty. Sanha thinks he’d hate to be in here alone, it is much too big, much too spacious. He guesses that the empty room is meant to be filled with music, rather than  _ things _ .

 

One by one, the musicians start to filter out and take their seats quietly, to the sound of an ongoing applause. Sanha doesn’t know the name of the instruments, taking in the scene with wide eyes and confusion, torn between staring at the huge drum-looking thing and the huge double basses. A man - the conductor, he assumes, if the baton is anything to go by - walks out. The musicians rise and smile as the conductor wades through the sea of chairs, shaking the hand of the violinist closest to the front, and then turns to the audience and takes one of the deepest bows Sanha has ever seen. Dongmin goes wild beside him, or as wild as this setting would permit. Sanha would laugh, but it feels inappropriate to laugh right now. The applause chases the conductor, a stern and confident looking individual, as he turns his back to face his orchestra.

Sanha might laugh at the gestures, but as he examines each and every one of the musicians, that breath inhaled for the purpose of laughter is snatched away from him. His head swims, the rise and fall of the strings falling upon deaf ears, as he zeroes in - for lack of a better word - on the young man sitting amongst the strings.

They are sitting on the lowest layer of the stage, grouped together, a sea of black suits and varnished maple wood. The conductor is waving his baton in Sanha’s peripheral, the music surging in time with those white cuffed sleeves, yet Sanha can only focus on one thing. He’s in the second row, chin hooked over the heel of the instrument, eyes turned down and focusing on the sheet music in front of him. His arms move with a grace Sanha had not yet seen in a musician; he’d peg it more for dancers. He sits straight, yet he looks anything but tense. He looks at home among the members of the orchestra, the ghost of a smile curled upon his lips, tugging up the corners. Sanha knows that smile would reach his eyes if he could see them. He looks sure, at ease, like he had been born to be where he is right now.

Sanha’s breath has yet to return, stolen by the man he so wistfully watches. His dark hair is parted slightly, down the middle of his long fringe, the hair at the back of his head even longer. Sanha thinks it suits him, although he’s not sure how many other people could pull it off that well. His features are sharp, precise, together forming a picture of serene yet intense beauty. He looks ever so powerful, even in the way he simply sits and  _ plays _ like he has been learning to for many years, probably. The violinist  _ shines _ , and Sanha thinks that he could be a solo musician in the way he captivates, demands Sanha’s attention although he is completely unaware of that fact. Sanha doesn’t mind giving him that attention, a smile of his own forming as the man lowers his instrument as the woodwinds take over. He feels Dongmin tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, and he turns his head, but his eyes stay on the violinist who is now turning his page.

“Are you seeing him?”

“Yeah,” Sanha breathes.

“The flute player?” Dongmin mumbles back. His sleeve is being assaulted violently by Dongmin’s fingers. Sanha wonders if that’s his way of yelling, when anything above a breath is considered socially inappropriate.

“Yeah.” Sanha nods, not paying that much attention.

“No you’re not. Look at him.”

The musician in question is undoubtedly Dongmin’s type; intelligent eyes not breaking that focus he so loudly portrays, loud in the strong notes flowing from the flute and loud in his presence. He moves sharply with the high notes, his expression somehow matching the tone of his music. Sanha nudges Dongmin, smirking, turning his attention back to the violinist who is now rejoining the movement.

 

Dongmin swears softly beside him, Sanha’s clapping almost drowning it out. The musicians stand up, smiling into the lights and at the audience, the conductor bowing deeply and proudly. Sanha stood too, joining the standing ovation that had taken over their balcony. 

Sanha felt regretful, watching the violinist and then the man with the flute depart the stage. The time had passed much too quickly, and Dongmin seemed to feel his exact emotions. 

“Glad you came?” Dongmin quips, the engine of his car the only sound in their world. Sanha is content to sit in silence, the memory of the music he’d just heard running goosebumps over his skin. He nods, smiling over at Dongmin as he settles into his seat and closes his eyes, thinking hard about the violinist.

 

It’s a Friday, and the weekend can’t come soon enough. The music from the orchestra is a memory merely two weeks old, yet it feels like a lifetime has spanned in between now and then. It’s been two weeks, two weeks longer than Sanha is comfortable with going without seeing the violinist.

“You’ve seen him  _ once. _ ” Dongmin chides, palms flat on Sanha’s desk, peering over at his laptop.

“Yeah, and like you’ve stopped thinking about the flute player. What did you nickname him, again?” Sanha replies easily, relishing the way Dongmin blushes, spluttering in disbelief. “It’s a bit of a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ situation, is it?”

“Yoon Sanha,” Dongmin starts, but is cut off by his phone ringing. Dongmin’s eyes narrow, his hands already moving to pick up. As he leaves, he turns and growls a threat over his shoulder. “We’ll speak about this later.”

‘Later’ never comes, presumably because Dongmin knows that he can’t say much. Sanha can always fight back with the memory of Dongmin’s sparkling eyes as the sound of a flute picked up over the rest of the orchestra. However, Sanha flinches as Dongmin returns half an hour later.

“I just got your message,” he huffs. “And I just wanted to say that there is absolutely no way you are joining an orchestra. You can’t name three instruments.”

“Did you run here to tell me that?” Sanha presses his lips together, a laugh dangerously close to escaping him. Dongmin’s face falters, his left eye twitches.

“It’s- yes. You wouldn’t have listened otherwise.”

Dongmin promptly slams the door, and Sanha’s peals of laughter chase him down the hallway.

 

Myungjun is regarding him over the rim of his mug, eyes scrutinising him in time with Dongmin’s story. Sanha had begged him earlier on to  _ not  _ talk about the orchestra for the full time that they went out for lunch with Myungjun and his boyfriend, Jinwoo. Dongmin had very reluctantly agreed after being bribed with more food, which left Sanha wondering how many of his own secrets could be revealed through his coworker if someone offered him a big enough meal. Myungjun, a veteran at being able to see straight through people, had picked it as soon as they had sat down.  _ “I’m a primary school teacher, I can practically see a secret. Which one of you is it?”  _ Dongmin had turned to him, floundering, and Sanha had shrugged dejectedly.

Myungjun is judging them both, Sanha can  _ feel _ it, can see it through the way Jinwoo wears a smirk big enough to reveal dimples Sanha didn’t even known he had. Dongmin groans as Myungjun takes a pensive breath.

“Alright. Just so we’re all on the same page, nobody here is joining an orchestra.” 

“Well I know that much-” Sanha whines.

“And secondly, is there any way we can find these musicians?” Myungjun’s eyes are shining in that signature way that Sanha recognises as mischief in its purest form. Dongmin sits up.

“ _ Myungjun _ , for the love of god,” he begs. “We are  _ not  _ stalking them.” Myungjun tuts, shaking his head, and Sanha can so vividly imagine how he looks in the classroom.

“I never said we had to  _ stalk  _ them. There are many creative ways to find a name. Do they have a website? Or a social media page?”

“ _ Myungjun!”  _ Dongmin exclaims in time with Jinwoo. Sanha has his head in his hands, elbows on the table, wondering why anyone thought this was a good idea. 

After Dongmin has complained enough, and Jinwoo has shut Myungjun up with a kiss, the conversation progresses into a discussion about their lives. Jinwoo is talking about his clinic, the happiness written all over his face enough to tell Sanha that a career in counselling fit Jinwoo perfectly. Jinwoo never talks about his clients, taking ethics and confidentiality to the grave, yet he speaks with such honest pity and regret when he talks about how he can’t fix everyone’s problems in the blink of an eye. 

“It takes time,” he says, and Sanha wonders if his voice is croaking a little. Myungjun takes Jinwoo’s hand in his, squeezes.

“So does perfection.” Myungjun reminds his boyfriend, words echoing with absolute encouragement and unfaltering love. The clouds in Jinwoo’s eyes clear, as if Myungjun is the sunshine to break through them, and Sanha finds himself wanting a love like that; a love so genuine that it kind of aches to witness. He looks over at Dongmin, and Dongmin is looking outside, watching the cars pass along the street. He looks a little forlorn, and Sanha thinks that if he could read his mind right now, he’d hear the sweet notes of a flute played by an angel in Dongmin’s eyes.

Sanha and Dongmin let Myungjun talk about his students with utmost adoration, describing the way it feels to watch a student learn to read, learn to conquer something they’d feared, all under  _ him _ , their mentor. It felt nice, watching his friends grow like this. 

“I mean, as  _ people  _ you’ve grown. You’re still short.”

Jinwoo leans across the table and swipes at him with force.

 

Life continues, as it does, and Sanha soon pushes the violinist to the back of his mind as he goes forward. Dongmin seems to do the same, periodically bringing up the feeling of chills they’d felt, assuring each other that they would definitely make plans to see the next orchestra that visits. 

Being secretary hadn’t changed much, other than his title and the seriousness with which he takes his job. He still organises meetings for everyone, but sometimes he is given an intern to take under his wing. He hopes that he can be to them what Dongmin had been for him all those years back, and with the way that they smile with relief at his jokes and laid back manner, he thinks he is, to some degree. He isn’t smart like Dongmin, not in finances and technology, but he is kind and he can teach others how to make  _ one hell of a schedule _ . Some days he spends with his phone glued to his ear, listening to demands and questions, supplying information when he could. Dongmin is his light at the end of a tunnel, and nothing shines as bright as his friend with a takeout container of fried rice - well maybe, just maybe, that violinist had shone a little brighter.

It is a Tuesday, and Sanha is resting at home on his couch. The best benefit he’s discovered to being higher up in the company has been the option to work from home on some days. The days he spends at home are the easiest, because emails tend to slow down for the day, and he can take naps whenever he likes. 

It’s a Tuesday, and his afternoon nap for this particular Tuesday is interrupted by the shrill ring of his phone. He swears, reaching for it and grumbling a half-friendly greeting.

_ “Sanha,”  _ comes Dongmin’s voice.  _ “Sleep well?” _

“I was sleeping fine, thanks. What do you want?”

_ “It’s almost lunch, and I miss having my lunch buddy. You took yesterday off too, so that means I haven’t seen you since last Friday.” _ Dongmin is whining, and Sanha smiles.

“Want me to come in and meet you, then?” he offers, already knowing the answer.

_ “Bring me one of those nice smoothies from down the street. And a caramel slice.” _

And with that, Sanha is left alone once again in the midday silence of his bedroom, left alone with the dust illuminated by the hazy sunlight. He gets ready to meet Dongmin to a classical soundtrack, the same playlist he’s been listening to for a month now. He pays extra attention to the strings that seem to both lead and follow, is reminded of a sharp jawline and intelligent eyes absorbed in the moment. Sanha lives in memories of the past, memories of a boy who lives in the present.

Thoughts of slender arms poised in the air follow him as he makes his way to the cafe, and he wonders if the orchestra are performing at the moment. He smiles, shaking his head as if that will help him focus more on where he is walking and less on the delicate grace and power that seemed to radiate off of the violinist.

 

“You got a new plant?” Sanha asks, closing the glass door behind himself, Dongmin’s glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He leans down to look at the yellow flowers adorning the plant, and Dongmin shoots him a look as if to remind him to be careful. Sanha sits down on the chair on the other side of Dongmin’s desk, the removal of Sanha’s desk leaving Dongmin’s to be the only one in the room. 

“Myungjun insisted that I name it after him,” he sighs in response, reaching out for the paper bag that Sanha offers him. “Thanks.” 

“No problem. Long day?” Sanha asks, frowning after he sees the tired bags under his friend’s eyes. Dongmin nods, looking as if his sanity rested upon the metaphorical shoulders of the caramel slice. “What’s going on?”

“Just-” Dongmin takes a bite of the sweet, chewing rather angrily, rolling his eyes at his computer. “A lot of argumentative customers today. Nothing I’m saying is sitting right with any of them.”

“Not your fault,” Sanha chewed on the inside of his cheek, hating the way Dongmin has lost his sense of humour for today. “Can you forget about it for twenty minutes? Put everything aside and have lunch with me, yeah? We’ll go out to the balcony, get you some fresh air.”

He sits Dongmin outside, watches him take a deep breath. 

“I’d be fine if it was just a couple of bad customers, but it’s been like this the  _ whole  _ day.” Dongmin sighs, looking over at Sanha from where he was leaning against the ledge. Sanha wishes it wasn’t the city they looked down upon, but a sea of wood and suits, the jagged yet fluid movements of bows upon strings. Dongmin might feel the same way, and so Sanha reaches out a hand and runs it down Dongmin’s arm.

“Halfway there,” he mumbles. “Then you can go home.”

 

Jinwoo and Myungjun are two names that tend to go together, and saying one alone feels wrong, feels a little bit lost without the other. Sanha is never sure which one of them to call if he wants Myungjun, because there was a fifty-fifty chance Jinwoo would pick up. 

_ “Sanha?”  _ Myungjun chirped. In the distance, he could hear the pitter-patter of dog paws on linoleum, and Jinwoo’s desperate cry of their dog’s name.  _ “Everything okay?” _

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Sanha laughed, Jinwoo’s shouting getting increasingly distant, yet also increasingly distraught. Myungjun giggles, the sound so very fond, and Sanha can almost see him watching his boyfriend with the closest thing to heart eyes chase their tiny dog down the hallway.

_ “It’s fine. Sophie is tracking mud through the house and Jinwoo’s just about lost his mind.” _ Myungjun hums, and Jinwoo is lost to the sound of a door clicking shut.  _ “Everything alright?” _

Sanha smiled, trying to come up with an excuse for calling. Myungjun, ever the psychic, just laughs after the silence spans a little too long. 

_ “Missed us, huh? Don’t let Jin catch on, he’ll get smug.” _

“Yeah, I figured that’s why I’d call you instead. It’s been about a month too long since we’ve seen you.” Sanha whines. 

_ We _ always means  _ Dongmin and I _ in this situation. Myungjun, at the beginning of things, had asked Sanha if he and Dongmin were together, purely because they had been so close. Dongmin had overheard, leaned back, and informed Myungjun that  _ ‘Sanha only wishes,’ _ before turning back around to finish his conversation with Jinwoo. Myungjun had watched in stunned silence, and it had taken Sanha three months to convince him that he was very single, and so was Dongmin. Dongmin, curse him, had not helped the situation, his sly comments only serving to add to the confusion. Five years later, Myungjun still asks Sanha if there is really nothing between them. He can hear it now in the silence after the word ‘we’, Myungjun’s conspiracies,  _ ‘I mean, you spend so much time together…’  _

_ “How about next week, Sunday?”  _

“I’ll check with Dongmin,” he hums. “Neither of us can do weekdays for a while.”

_ “Oh? You’re not working from home at all?” _

“No. I’ve got meetings every other day this week.” Sanha lets out a dry laugh, fiddling with the zip on his jacket. He’s dreading this week, in all honesty. Myungjun sighs in sympathy, a sigh turning into a curse because Jinwoo’s voice is carrying through the door, Sophie’s barks creating an atmosphere of chaos. 

_ “I have to go, Sanha, I’m so sorry. Good luck with your meetings! You’ll do great, you businessman, you. Say hello to Dongmin for me! God, Jinwoo, what did I tell you about the carpet? Look at it!” _

Sanha listens to the silence of the ended call for a while, wondering how such a lovely couple manage to have such a hectic lifestyle, despite doing very little to have that happen. He listens to nothing but his own thoughts and desires for a while, longing to have something like what Myungjun and Jinwoo have.

 

The first morning of Sanha’s meetings-week, as he’s termed it, turns out to be a morning to remember. He wakes up to the sound of birds, sees a sparrow perched on his windowsill, looking in from the outside. He screams, body tensing up as he throws himself backwards off of his bed. Sitting on his floor breathing heavily, he takes a moment to breathe before he shakily makes his way to the bathroom to get ready; this time in the absence of birds.

His favourite cafe is closed for construction, much to his irritation. He’d even headed off earlier so that he could both avoid peak hour traffic and sit down and have a cup of coffee at a normal pace, rather than downing it quickly and burning his mouth. He is forced into the more crowded section of the city, closer to work, yet he hated the amount of people. He manages to find a cafe, tucked away out of the busy streets, down an alleyway that doesn’t seem dodgy. The menu is scrawled on a blackboard in white chalk, a hand-drawn cup of coffee in the bottom right corner. He likes it, the clean yet welcoming feel of the cafe. He takes a seat at a table against the wall, reading through some trends that have some potential to come in handy for work. 

He lets half an hour pass before he’s smiling at the barista as he stands up, moving to the doorway and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He pushes the door open, wades into the crowd. Among people of the same type, it’s always easy to spot a difference, and that difference comes in the form of a man in one hell of a hurry. His dark hair bobs in time with hurried footsteps, and Sanha wonders where he could be heading. He fights back a smile, wondering just how late the dark-haired man is to his morning schedule, and in order to not be late to his own, Sanha steps forward into the rush of people. They are heading in opposite directions, him and this hurried individual, and Sanha observes him a little closer. He lugs with him a decent sized case in one hand, his phone in his other. Sanha is so focused on trying to focus on the man’s features that he fails to recognise that the reason why he could gradually see the case in more detail is because it is indeed getting closer. They meet in the middle, their shoulders colliding, and the man is sent tumbling forward. For a moment, their eyes lock, and Sanha knows that focus like he knows few other things. He knows those features, knows that characteristic curl of lips upward, knows that long fringe. Sanha’s heart soars, the hazy memory of the boy with the violin restored, connecting the two dots between the case and the orchestra. Sanha grins as he reaches out to steady the boy who is scrambling to find his footing. 

“Sorry,” the man breathes through those lips. He recognises panic in the way one of his hands flies to his hair and makes it a mission to mess the strands up, his eyes darting between street signs and his watch. He doesn’t need Jinwoo to remind him what a moment of anxiety is, not when the next words to fall upon his ears in that lovely voice are, “I’m so late for this performance.”

“Is it far away?” He asks. The boy hums, the hum shifting to a stressed sigh.

Sanha scrambles, reminiscent of the way the violinist had, yet this time he’s scrambling for words that aren’t straightforward, words that won’t be said with that eagerness he feels bubbling in him. It’s nine o’clock, his watch tells him, and his meeting starts at nine-thirty.

“I can drive you there? If that helps?” Sanha offers, without a second thought. The boy looks up, his hand lost amongst those beautiful locks of hair, hope written across his face. 

“You would?”

“Of course,” Sanha laughs, nodding, watching as the violinist laughs too, in relief. Sanha leads the way, hoping that his car is clean.

“Minhyuk,” the boy says as they walk side by side.

“Sorry?”

“My name.” He smiles, and Sanha witnesses heaven on Earth. “It’s Minhyuk.”

“I’m Sanha,” he breathes back. Sanha doesn’t mind the silence as he walks, perhaps because his mind is racing so fast that no moment truly feels quiet.

The violinist - Minhyuk - settles into the passenger seat. He sighs again, head falling back against the headrest. His cheeks are slightly flushed from stress.

“I was going to miss my train,” he smiled wryly. Sanha glances at him, shaking his head. “And then I would’ve missed the performance. You ever seen an orchestra? They lose their minds if you’re late.”

Sanha hums, turning every corner carefully, because he has  _ precious cargo _ .

“I’ve seen an orchestra, yeah.”

 

“Thanks again, Sanha,” Minhyuk is in a hurry, again, a blur of graceful limbs and long hair. He’s fumbling, pushing something into Sanha’s hands, but Sanha is busy smiling across the car at him as he gets out. “Saved me my job.”   
Sanha can’t say the same. It’s ten o’clock, and his boss has been calling him every three minutes for the past half an hour. “Not a problem. Play well, Minhyuk.”

“I will,” Minhyuk calls, and adds with a wink that Sanha finds to be completely unnecessary, “I’ll play well for you.”

Sanha’s phone feels heavy in his pocket. One new contact should not weigh a physical kilogram, and yet,  _ and yet _ . It’s Sanha’s turn to rush, and he can almost hear his boss yelling in the distance. 

_ ‘Yoon Sanha,’  _ he will be yelling.  _ ‘You’re half an hour late!’  _

_ ‘Sorry, boss,’  _ Sanha will reply.  _ ‘Important emergency.’ _

His reply, in reality, will come out a little broken, because his phone will light up with a message.  _ ‘Thank you, Sanha! Hope you can come!’ _

Sanha fishes through his pockets as the meeting commences, although they are a little pressed for time. He finds what Minhyuk had given him, and it’s a ticket to their next performance, out of town. 

Dongmin’s going to  _ kill  _ him.

 

Sanha’s office is in the same place, but he’s placed a pink sticky note over the word  _ secretary _ so it reads  _ chief executive officer _ . Dongmin is  _ Vice-President, _ and he’s already abused his power by telling Sanha off for having something as unprofessional as a sticky note describe his role and rank. It also means their offices are closer than they have been in years. Sanha likes to tease him about being the Vice-President, likes to tease him about his dark-themed office that overlooks the prettier side of the city. It looks especially nice at night, sitting side by side on top of Dongmin’s desk, where nobody should sit. Dongmin is  _ Vice-President _ , but he insists that red wine tastes better on top of the Vice-President’s desk, and tastes even better without shoes and without a tie on. It’s after hours now, and all of their work is done for the week.

“You seeing Bin this weekend?” Sanha asks. 

“Of course.” Dongmin’s smile comes easily, naturally. Always does when it’s about Moonbin. “And I assume Minhyuk is already at your place?”

Sanha nods, reflects Dongmin’s smile, sipping at the wine. “God, this is good.”

“Told you. It’s the desk.” Dongmin says seriously, at which Sanha snorts. 

“I thought it was the shoes.”

He returns home to Minhyuk sleeping on the couch. His shoes are off, thrown haphazardly across the floor. He’s long since moved apartments, but his favourite thing about this new apartment is the addition of Minhyuk on the weekends. His violin is on the coffee table, sheet music on the floor with his shoes. Minhyuk is beautiful, beautiful like he always is, but the way his arm falls off of the side of Sanha’s couch, frowning in his sleep, is something else. Sanha takes a moment there in the doorway to appreciate where life has taken him. From uncertainty in high school right up to the blinding certainty of Minhyuk. He observes the open area of his apartment, the furthest wall lined with clean windows, every surface littered with things that remind him either of himself or Minhyuk. He has a picture of the two of them on the mantle of the fireplace, grinning into the small space between their lips, the picture slightly blurry from Myungjun’s laughter as he’d taken it. Next to them is Moonbin and Dongmin, curled against each other, smiling at the camera. He can see Jinwoo’s fingernail in the bottom right corner from his poor attempt to ruin the moment, and every single thing about that picture reminds Sanha so completely of their little group.

He remembers now who rests on his couch and sighs, wishing Minhyuk would stop waiting up for him. He shucks off his own shoes, padding over to the couch, and lifts his boyfriend into his arms and off of the couch. “To the  _ actual _ bed we go.” He scolds.

Sanha notices the way that his side of the bed is unmade, and he grins as he imagines Minhyuk snuggling into his bed while he waits. He hates the way Minhyuk sends him into a spiral of love and affection. Sanha will sleep on the other side of the bed tonight, and he tucks Minhyuk in nice and tight, brushing the hair away from his forehead so that he can kiss it.

He climbs onto the other side of the bed, gently and timidly, and as he finally settles in, Minhyuk shifts in his sleep to cuddle up to Sanha. Sanha wants to laugh, but he opts for wrapping his arms tight around Minhyuk’s waist instead.

“We’re all getting promotions this year, aren’t we?” Sanha muses quietly. Minhyuk is now the concertmaster of his orchestra, a role that Sanha still can only distinguish by whose hand the conductor shakes first. All that Sanha knows is that his boyfriend, his gentle yet powerful Minhyuk, is talented enough of a musician to get his hand shaken first to the sound of an applause.

He falls asleep with a smile buried into those dark locks he had first seen nearly three years ago.

Maybe he should propose soon.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this!! ily


End file.
